


Any Way You Slice It

by thebodyeclectic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Knotting, M/M, Multi, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebodyeclectic/pseuds/thebodyeclectic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Isaac is Derek and Stiles's feelings child and also everyone thinks the end of their amicable buddyfucking was something out of those CW soaps Stiles swears he doesn't watch and tries to get them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed. Partly inspired by [this](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/4407.html?thread=2700087#t2700087) prompt on the kink meme. I didn't really like the km's layout so I decided to continue filling it here.
> 
> Everything about UC Berkeley and SF mentioned within are based off the one summer I stayed with my aunt who lived in that general area when I was nine and my google-fu skills. Corrections and criticisms welcome!
> 
> Title from Mayer Hawthorne's The Walk.

"So..."

Stiles looks up from trying to sort green books (and the occasional blue - because let's face it, not everyone on campus has the three extra cents to spare to help the environment) into something approaching a manageable pile that he can haul two buildings and six flights over.

It's that guy who's always wearing hipster flannel (as opposed to the slob-flannel Stiles owns) under cashmere cardigans, wayfarer glasses that Stiles is almost positive doesn't have real lenses, and perpetual bedhead. Jefferson? Jamison? Or something that sounds remarkably close to it but Stiles really can't be expected to remember every single person in a 200-strong class, though he did try to at the start, only that ended up in massive headaches and tears.

"Can I help you?" Stiles asks, trying for polite interest while struggling to stuff the green books in his backpack.

Jefferson/Jamison smiles and scratches the back of his head and the overall effect is Abercrombie model trying and failing at acting uncertain. "Yeah, I was kinda wondering now that you're not my TA and everything..."

Stiles finally jiggles the strap of his backpack closed and makes a general walk-with-me gesture. He's only half-paying attention to Jefferson/Jamison because he's devoting most of his concentration on not faceplanting while climbing up the too-wide steps of the lecture hall. You fall down four times while running late for an Intro class and it _sticks with you_.

He reaches out to push the door open - managing to contain the little dance of victory he always wants to make after every successful defeat of said steps - and tunes in just in time to hear Jefferson/Jamison say: "...grab a coffee sometime?"

"Whu-?" he manages to get out before tripping and smacking his face into the door.

"Oh, wow, you okay?" Jefferson/Jamison asks, grabbing Stiles by the elbow to stop him from falling on his ass and somehow also keeping the door from slamming shut.

Stiles starts nodding automatically. "Never been better, buddy."

"You sure?"

"Good, I'm good," Stiles says, patting him reassuringly on his (very, very firm) chest.

"So, about coffee?"

"Nectar of the gods, fuel of geniuses everywhere. Civilizations have fallen from coffee bean shortages. Good thesis topic, that, if you're thinking about it."

Jefferson/Jamison blinks. "Really?"

Stiles shrugs. "Well, not _entire_ civilizations. I exaggerate. Economies, more like."

"Oh, okay, I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that."

"Um, so, what I meant to say was would you like to..." Jefferson/Jamison trails off and looks at some point over Stiles's shoulder.

"Would I like to...?" Stiles says, following his gaze and ends up a hairsbreadth away from kissing Isaac on the mouth. "Jesus," Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes and shoving his laptop case at Isaac. "If you're gonna stand around looking like the poster boy for on-campus sexual harassment vigilance, you better make yourself useful."

Isaac's stony gaze doesn't shift, glaring pointedly at where Jefferson/Jamison's still got his hand on Stiles's elbow but he does take the laptop bag, to his credit (or Stiles's, you know what, Stiles will take all the credit here because it took him literal _years_ to train Isaac that well, thank you very much).

Jefferson/Jamison lets go and takes a step back and whoa, Stiles didn't realize dude was standing so close to him.

"Sorry," he mutters.

Stiles can sense that Isaac is about thisclose to growling at the poor guy and decides to cut this shit off at the pass before it gets to like telenovela leagues of terrible. "Okay, coffee and the world economy, I'll hold you to that. See you next semester, Jefferson. Hopefully."

Jefferson blinks. "Um, sure."

Stiles grins at him, big and cheesy and totally repellant to all sane creatures looking to get laid.

He gets the hint.

"See you around. And it's, uh, Jacobson."

Stiles gives him a big thumbs up just to drive home the point. "Gotcha."

And then he's herding Isaac down the hall and out the building.

"Thanks for the cockblock, seriously. Thank you," he says, as they step out into the muggy San Francisco sunshine. "It's not like I need any help at all in that department."

"He was an asshole, anyway," Isaac mutters grudgingly.

"Is this another one of your superpowers that I'm not aware of or is it just your very own, personal sixth sense?"

"He _looked_ like a douche," Isaac acquiesces.

Stiles opens his mouth to argue but finds that he can't really counteract that. "Fine," he huffs, throwing his hands up in the air. "But it's not like I wanted to _date_ him."

"You smell like horrible, filthy shame after your one night stands," Isaac says.

Stiles flails to a stop in the middle of the quad. "I hate you."

Isaac smiles at him. "No you don't."

Stiles sighs. "No, I don't."

"Now, _come on_ ," Isaac whines, pulling Stiles along behind him. "Lydia wants us to buy some more of those weird skinny bean sprouts for dinner."

"Blergh," Stiles mock-vomits, and lets himself be dragged all the way to the farmers market.

*

It's early yet so the house is empty when they get home from the market. Isaac immediately high-tails it to the living room and turns the TV to the Food Network, leaving Stiles to put away the groceries.

There's a post-it note from Lydia taped to the fridge - _Wash the sprouts!_ \- with an addendum from Danny: _Not in the sink where the shrimp's defrosting!_

Living with them is like living with your paranoid, obsessive-compulsive, scarily efficient mother-in-law. Only there's two of them. And they've both assigned themselves as his life coach.

He runs the sprouts under the tap and lays them out next to the other vegetables on the counter. He doesn't think about the time when it used to be his job to tell everyone to eat their vegetables and instead reminds himself that he really needs to call his dad.

He puts the rest of the groceries away - they're mostly things he and Isaac couldn't help buying, jars of preserves, homemade vegan cookies, gluten-free croissants and a bouquet of wild flowers so Lydia doesn't yell at them for buying so much food that will most likely end up growing mold in their cupboards.

He heads to the living room and Isaac's curled up on the sectional, watching Animal Planet, which is just an exercise in self-flagellation, all things considered.

He plops down next to him and takes the remote gently from his hands, switching the channel to something more benign like football.

Isaac makes his little choked-off hurt animal noises, burying his face in Stiles's side. Stiles lets him, runs a hand through Isaac's hair, and tries not to think about all the things he doesn't have to do anymore.

*

Lydia banging around in the kitchen normally wouldn't be enough to even make Stiles turn over in his sleep but this time around, she deliberately drops a cast-iron wok on the coffee table.

"Jesus Christ!" Stiles shrieks, jerking awake.

Isaac makes an aborted growling noise - cut-off because obviously he has the good sense to tread carefully when Lydia is in one of her _moods_.

And by _mood_ obviously meaning when it's her turn to cook.

"Where are all the carrots?" she asks sweetly, burgundy nails drumming impatiently against her hip.

"Carrots? What carrots?" Stiles says while scrambling his ass up off the couch to better arm himself for this confrontation.

Lydia narrows her eyes at him. "The carrots I explicitly said I bought for the bibimbap I'm making tonight."

"Were they a special kind of carrot?" Stiles asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

Lydia's expression explodes into a full-blown glare.

"Stiles used them all during the last full moon," Isaac volunteers because he is a traitorous traitor who commits treason in the name of self-preservation.

Stiles makes aggrieved faces but he really has no high horse here to ride on because he ratted Danny out to Lydia not two days ago. Seriously, desperation makes people stupid because that's the only explanation for a) Danny raiding Lydia's condom stash and b) Lydia assuming Stiles has had anything resembling sex in the last three months which would necessitate in him raiding her drawers.

"In my defense!" Stiles yells, preemptively holding up his arms because Lydia's making motions to pick up the wok and brain him with it, "I was rescuing a poor defenseless creature at the time so your carrots have been sacrificed for freedom!"

"I still protest being banned from hunting rabbits," Isaac grumbles, lightly kicking Stiles's knee.

Lydia turns the force of her glare on Isaac and Stiles breathes out a big sigh of momentary relief. "When you can be a big boy and not whine about experiencing indigestion the day after, you can go and eat as many live lagomorphs and procyonidae as you want."

"I'd never eat a raccoon," Isaac huffs.

Lydia levels him with a look.

"I totally saw a striped tail when I cleaned up your vomit from the bathtub last January, buddy," Stiles says. "That is an experience I do not want to relive ever again in my life, hence the trail of carrots leading _away_ from the backyard."

"You've ruined my dinner plans," Lydia says and shoves the wok into Stiles's stomach. "You cook."

"Ow!" Stiles flails, grabbing at the wok. "I can't believe you're using this as an excuse to welsh out of your turn! They're just carrots."

"Carrots are an important part of the recipe," Isaac smirks while making space for Lydia on the couch. Lydia's already clearly over the conversation - she's consulting her tablet computer and texting furiously.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I hate everything," he mutters while heading into the kitchen and pulling out his own phone to google bibimbap recipes. "Set the table, Isaac!"

*

The nice thing about their house, other than being in Pacific Heights and in relative walking distance to two parks and also owned by Lydia's parents and therefore rent is dirt cheap, is that it has a patio. Well, patio for a given term of the word what with it being San Francisco. Let's include the backyard in that general definition as well and, while we're at it, the parks.

Isaac _hates_ the parks but little beggar werewolves can't be choosy if they want space to run around and hunt poor defenseless bunny rabbits in.

But back to the patio.

Eating outdoors is a new thing to Stiles and he loves that patio almost as much as he loves red vines, which is to say _a lot_. Isaac loves it because he can escape to it when he's feeling claustrophobic, which is often. Danny loves grilling - and the spiffy Foreman grill in the corner can attest to that - while Lydia just loves the open space and the associated decorating. Stiles still thinks that setting up a tent is a very good idea in the face of the unpredictable San Francisco weather, lack of aesthetics notwithstanding, thankyouverymuch Lydia. Lydia doesn't have to haul an entire wicker dining set and the accompanying psuedo-Mediterranean decor into the sun room every time it threatens to rain; she just orders everyone else to do it.

But it's May, so the sun is still out even though it's close to half past seven, and they're experiencing a strange stretch of bright, temperate weather, so they put the patio to good use and crack open a couple of bottles of moderately-priced wine to go with dinner outside.

Lydia makes distinctly unimpressed faces at her bowl while Isaac shrugs at the gelatinous glop in his and digs in. Danny's pacing the backyard, on his phone, finishing up with someone from work so Stiles is still waiting for the final tally on his skills.

Hey, it isn't his fault he didn't know he wasn't supposed to put in the egg until _after_ everything else was done.

"Before you pass judgment," Stiles says when Danny finally takes his place at the table, "try it first."

Danny takes one good look at his bowl and makes a face. "That looks like something you wouldn't even feed a pig," he says shucking off his blazer.

"Hey! Looks aren't everything."

Lydia stops poking at her bowl long enough to raise an eyebrow at him. "Have you learned nothing from me? Presentation is everything."

"It's not too bad," Isaac says between scooping up another spoonful of what Stiles has to admit really looks like slop.

"That's why you're my favorite," Stiles cheers, picking up his chopsticks and doing a happy wiggle. "Have I ever mentioned that I love Isaac best?"

"All the time," Danny says, downing his glassful of wine in one go.

"Constantly," Lydia agrees, picking up the bottle and topping off Danny's glass. "Hard day at work, sweetie?"

Danny shrugs. "Same old stuff, you know?"

Lydia makes sympathetic noises.

Stiles and Isaac share a _look_. They're still not convinced that the think tank Danny purportedly works for isn't a shady branch of the government that's dedicated to finding ways to exploit people's right to privacy. It's a thing.

"I heard they transferred Basri to your department," she says.

"I still hate you for convincing him to come work with me," Danny says.

"It's a dog eat dog world out there," she bites out, savoring each syllable. "I'd rather he fuck up your projects than mine."

"I don't know why we're friends."

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder and smiles brilliantly at him.

It takes two seconds for Danny to crack and smile back.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I thought the rule was we're not allowed to talk about work at the dinner table. Or anywhere inside the house, for that matter."

"You're just annoyed because the total sum of your contribution to the conversation would amount to an inappropriate teacher-student relationship," Isaac says, smirking.

Stiles's mouth drops open. " _You_ of all people have no right to bring that up."

"Oooh, do tell," Lydia says, face set in an expression of intense interest that would look like deathly boredom to other people while Danny grins and leans in close.

Stiles makes shoo-ing motions at them. "Extremely aborted teacher-student relationship. Not that you could call it that since I'm technically not a teacher - "

"Technically, you kind of are," Danny adds, completely unhelpful.

" - and anyway, people who live in glass houses should not cast stones because I, for one, did not sleep with the wife of my boss who pays me out of pocket, Isaac."

Isaac shrugs, taking a sip of wine. "He was there, too."

Stiles flails. "Did you hear that? Did you?" He boggles at Lydia and Danny who both look the very picture of unperturbed. "Illicit adulterous threesome with an authority figure trumps skeevy power dynamics which, excuse you, would have ceased to exist four hours from now, any day."

Lydia and Danny nod at him condescendingly. "Sure it does."

"I don't know why I'm held to a different standard," Stiles grumbles, shoving a huge mouthful of rice and vegetables into his mouth.

"Getting more wine," Isaac says abruptly, all but darting out of his chair and into the house.

Stiles stares after his retreating back in confusion and turns around to address that bit of weirdness only he ends up face to face with Erica, slouched in what was Isaac's seat.

"Hey, ma," she says, grinning slyly. "What's for dinner?"

*

"Daddy called," Erica says blithely, polishing off her second serving (Danny's - more than willingly given) of bibimbap. "Wants everyone to come back home." She pushes the empty bowl away and starts eyeing Lydia's. Lydia narrows her eyes and takes a huge emphatic spoonful because let it not be said that Lydia is capable of being the bigger person in any given situation. Erica smiles and leans in close, so very close. "That means you too, princess."

"Unlike you, Derek doesn't have _me_ on a leash. He doesn't get to order me around."

"But you're pack, whether you like it or not," Erica says, flashing her teeth. "And this is Hale business."

"Pack being a relative term here," Lydia counters.

Danny interrupts before it devolves into either full on girl-on-girl action or full on girl-on-girl action of the physically violent kind. Stiles is forever holding out hope for the former but this shit has been going on for close to ten years already and is really an exercise in futility at this point.

"What exactly is happening in Beacon Hills?"

"Re-negotiating boundaries," Erica says, leaning back in her chair. "The Fordham pack's growing."

"They've always been big," Stiles points out.

Erica shrugs. "They're feeling claustrophobic."

"But Beacon Hills has always been Hale territory," Stiles argues.

Erica spares him a passing glance. "There aren't very many Hales left now, are there? All that land and no one to use it."

"So what?" Lydia says, drumming her nails on the tabletop. "Derek wants us to stand around and menace while he asserts his dominance?"

Erica looks at her lap, snorts a little private laugh, and finally meets Stiles's eyes. "He wants us as witnesses. For the handfasting ceremony."

*

Stiles retreats to the kitchen on the pretense of bringing out dessert and something stronger than wine.

"Heard everything?" he says to Isaac, who's staring out the window, half-hidden by the gauzy linen curtain. Isaac doesn't reply and Stiles didn't really expect him to. Stiles busies himself with gathering up plates and looking for the whiskey he's positive is hidden somewhere in the pantry.

"Are you coming?" Isaac asks.

Stiles doesn't bother with answering, instead he brandishes the half-full bottle of Glenfiddich he'd found stuffed in an empty box of Cap'n Crunch. "Let's go get plastered," he says, grabbing the dessert plates and knocking shoulders with Isaac.

Isaac tries and fails at attempting a smile, leading the way back out to the patio, knuckles pale against the casserole of Danny's homemade tiramisu.

Stiles pauses by the window, thinks he spots Boyd lurking behind their neighbor's lemon tree and glares at the indistinct shape on general principle before once again heading into the breach and all that.

*

Erica just winks and waves past Stiles on her way out the door, completely ignoring the fact that Stiles is literally buried under a bunch of bedlinens and pillows because he is a good host and was going to make the couch up for her. Erica's obviously grown as a person since they saw her last because she totally reads Lydia's deliberately slamming her bedroom door in her face and pointedly _not_ locking it (because that obviously would do nothing to keep Erica out if she were really determined) as her being distinctly not welcome to stay the night.

Stiles huffs and marches his way back to the linen closet and stuffs the bedclothes back in there without a thought to order. He's going to hear it froms someone at some point in the future but he does not have it in him to care right now.

He retreats to his bedroom and strips down to his boxers before getting into bed. He's about to drift off to the comforting sounds of Danny putting the kitchen back in order and doing one last check of the house when he hears his bedroom door scrape open.

He was kind of hoping that it wouldn't be one of _those_ nights but that's sort of like wishing on unicorn farts and mermaid tears now that Erica's blown into town so he just pulls back the covers and makes room for Isaac to crawl into bed with him.

"You okay?" he asks because there is not a silence that Stiles just won't fill.

He can feel Isaac shrug and shuffle close. Stiles takes the unspoken cue and starts snuggling him with bonus hair-petting because, hey, he might not be as comforting as a werewolf pile but he'll be damned if he won't give as good as.

"You're going to be okay coming back with us, right?" Isaac snuffles into his collarbone.

"Uh, yeah?" Stiles makes a face. "Why wouldn't I be? Remind me to call dad in the morning to give him fair warning to hide all the pre-packaged, processed, heart attack-inducing goodness he's keeping around the house."

"Stiles."

"Lemme know if you wanna bunk with us, too."

"Stop avoiding the conversation," Isaac says seriously, eyes glowing in the dark.

" _You_ stop avoiding the conversation," Stiles says, indignant.

Isaac huffs. "I want to know if you're going to be okay seeing Derek again."

Stiles makes a painfully aggrieved face and pretends to tear his hair out. " _Oh my god!_ I don't know why you people think me and Derek have a problem with each other when we've passed the physical violence part of our relationship a long, long time ago!"

Stiles can actually feel Isaac making sad faces at him. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

Stiles bangs his head back against his pillow. "For the last time, Derek and I are not angstily pining for each other, we are not star-crossed lovers separated by our ideals and, if you don't believe me, I just mediated a treaty between him and the local pack last month!"

Isaac makes a frankly disbelieving noise.

Stiles decides to pull out the big guns. "Okay, you want to talk about angsty pining? We'll talk about angsty pining. How blind do you think I am to not have noticed you retreating to the kitchen when - " He's cut off by Isaac slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Fine, you win. No angsty pining happening between you and Derek. Got it."

"Good," Stiles says, or tries to with Isaac's hand in the way.

Isaac lets go and curls away from Stiles, pulling the duvet all the way up to his chin.

Stiles groans, kicking the covers most of the way to Isaac's side. "I better not wake up all sweaty in the morning," Stiles says warningly, knowing that it's a moot point because apparently along with the high body temperature, werewolves are not-so-secretly shameless cuddle monsters and Stiles has many a time woken drenched in sweat and pressed underneath a live furnace to know better.

*


	2. Chapter 2

Lydia drops them off with less than a backwards wave before speeding away towards the Hale house. Stiles is attacked by a sudden fit of coughing, spurred on by the dust Lydia's little sportscar stirs up in its wake, and he starts flapping his arms around, in a useless bid to clear the air.

Isaac's making an exasperated face at him from the front porch, their duffel bags slung across his chest. Stiles squints his way from the sidewalk all the way to the front door, gasping. "I'm dying."

"Drama queen," Isaac says under his breath as Stiles unlocks the door and pushes it open.

Stiles retaliates by pinching his side - not that it does much difference, werewolf resiliance versus human strength.

"I'm smelling a heart attack baking in the oven!" he calls out, tossing his keys onto the side table and heading for the kitchen.

"I thought it'd be nice to give you a proper welcome home, _son_ ," his dad says, standing up from where he'd been fiddling with the oven. Stiles can't help noticing his dad wince as he unbends his knees but ignores it for the moment.

"I thought we had a talk about your cholesterol, _father_ ," Stiles snarks back. "In fact, unless I'm suffering from selective amnesia, we've had many, many repeated conversations about your cholesterol."

"I guess I'll just have to give Mabel her lasagna back, seeing as how we aren't supposed to have any," his dad smirks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stiles flails, clutching his heart. "Oh my god!" Mabel Morelli's eight cheese lasagna is the stuff of Beacon Hills legend and is Stiles's kryptonite. Stiles basically dove into a vat of the stuff that Mabel baked for the county fair when he was eight. That photo of him made the lifestyle page of the local paper and his parents had it framed and it now sits in a place of honor above the fireplace. "You _do_ love me!"

His dad rolls his eyes. "Get over here," he says, holding out his arms.

Stiles complies, hugging his dad and taking a not-so-surreptitious stock of his father. His dad's lost a bit of weight but it doesn't seem to be a bad thing. Stiles reminds himself to go give Dr. Tan a call just to make sure.

"It's good to see you, Stiles," his dad says.

"You too, dad."

His dad frees an arm and waves Isaac over. "You too, kid." And then Stiles finds himself squashed between the two of them.

*

"Everything all right with you, son?"

They're sitting out on the porch, his dad on a lawn chair and Stiles perched on a railing, drinking beers - Stiles still can't get over the fact that he's _sharing a beer with his dad_ all grown up-like - and not at all waiting for Isaac to get back safely from communing with the woods.

"Yep, except for Dean Carmichael's passive aggressive bitchiness when I asked for leave, which excuse her, I've got a lot of vacation saved up okay? And there's a month at least until summer intake and I can totally grade two hundred papers before this month's out and seriously, it's just a _week_. It's not like I'm pulling a Suarez and claiming mental health days only to turn up _married_ to a rockstar without so much as a two weeks' notice and really - "

"Stiles," his dad interrupts calmly, raising an eyebrow at him.

"And Lydia totally made us stop by a bar before we got here because Erica was getting on her nerves," which was strange since Erica wasn't even in the car with them, she was on her bike, playing chicken with passing trucks and totally giving Stiles heart palpitations and, huh, maybe it was him who got on Lydia's nerves, "so I totally pre-gamed before we got here. Not that it's really pre-gaming, per se." His dad just regards him patiently. "And yup, everything's okay with me. Danny says hi, by the way."

"Uh huh," his dad nods, finally looking away to take a swig of his beer.

"Whattabout you?" Stiles starts chipping away at the label on his bottle.

"My cholesterol's down, my blood pressure's okay. The office is good. We hired a new deputy. He's one of Derek's."

Stiles blinks. Repeatedly. "You hired _Scott_? No, wait, we just texted last week so it can't be him or Allison. Oh my god! _Jackson's one of your deupties?!"_

His dad stares at him. "I meant one of his _kind_ , Stiles. You know...wolf."

"Oh," Stiles says. "Whoops. Also, you don't have to say it like _that_ , you know."

"Say what like what?"

"Like all whispery and stuff," Stiles says, then demonstrates. "Like all ... _wolf._ Boyd's worked for you for years and he doesn't care."

"I don't say it like _that,_ " his dad protests.

"You totally do." Then it hits Stiles. "Wait, wait. So there's a rogue werewolf in town and you decided to _hire_ him? Dad! I taught you better than that! I'm calling Derek; he needs to know about this!" Stiles wiggles around, trying to get his phone out of his back pocket but his dad's hand on his arm stops him.

"Derek knows," his dad says and then, with a concerned expression, adds, "Scott says he's one of the Fordhams and he's Derek's future brother-in-law."

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh, good. For a minute there I thought we were gonna be dealing with a rogue."

There's a pause and then his dad asks, tentative, "So...you're okay?"

"Uh, you're okay so I'm obviously okay," he says, gesturing for emphasis. "Why do you ask?"

"Son..."

"Dad...?"

His dad lets out a huge breath. "Look, if you need to talk, I'm here, okay?"

"Yeah, sure?" Stiles replies, not really getting the context of the whole conversation but agreeing anyway because there lies the path of least resistance and all that.

His dad nods, patting him on the knee. "Alright."

Stiles shrugs that bit of weirdness off his back. "So, anyway, did I tell you about that guy who cheated on Lydia? Boy, am I glad to have been present for that conversation... _not_."

*

"Yo, anybody home?" Stiles calls out the next morning as he lets himself in through the front door of the Hale house. "I've got cupcakes!"

It's been five years since he'd last set foot in here and back then it had still been in the middling stages of reconstruction, completely unfurnished save a few futons here and there with only the first floor done. Hell, the stairs Scott's currently barelling down of had just been a burned out husk and now there's a banister and everything.

"Stiles!" Scott yells gleefully, glomming onto Stiles's side and it's only by sheer force of dumb luck that Stiles doesn't drop the cupcakes on the floor. "It's been too long, man!"

Stiles holds still and lets himself be sniffed and petted. "Yeah, well, the road goes both ways, buddy, and how many times have I invited you to come down and visit?" He looks up and smiles wide, seeing Allison making her way slowly down the stairs, grinning back at him.

"Stiles!" she calls out, glowing. Stiles manages to drag both himself and Scott halfway up the stairs to meet her. She throws her arms around him, heavily pregnant belly pressing into his side.

"I've known that you're having a baby but.. _wow_ , you know?" Stiles says dumbly.

"I know, right?" Scott says, hiding a smile against Stiles's shoulder while Allison beams.

"I brought you cupcakes," Stiles says, holding them out to her.

"You're the best."

"Thank you."

"Hey!" Scott says.

"It's true," Allison says, pouting at him before breaking out into laughter. "I'm so glad you're here, Stiles."

"Me too," Stiles says, perfunctory, before asking, "When are you due?"

"Sometime mid-June."

"Can I - ?" he says, waving a hand in front of her belly.

Allison raises her hands skyward. "Finally, someone who _asks_!" She nods at him. "Go ahead."

Stiles very, very carefully places a hand against her belly. He doesn't know what he was expecting, it's not like the baby can kick on command or anything but he feels a sudden flood of indescribable affection for the baby and Allison and even Scott. "I'll make sure to clear my schedule for then."

"Damn right," Scott says, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "You better bring cigars and champagne and stuff like a proper godparent."

"You'll be lucky if I bring balloons," Stiles quips, elbowing Scott in the stomach.

"I heard something about cupcakes?" And there's Erica coming out of the study, Isaac and Derek following close behind her. By the look of it, they'd just come from an epic cuddle session.

"Stiles brought a bunch," Allison answers, waving the box around as they navigate their way down the stairs, both Stiles and Scott not so successfully hiding the fact that they're carefully watching every step she takes.

"I think Anna from the bakery's sweet on my dad," Stiles explains. "There was a lot of romantic overtures masked as baked goodness in the fridge. Hey, Derek."

Stiles doesn't miss the long once-over Derek gives him. "Stiles." He tilts his head in acknowledgment while his eyes track Isaac moving from his side to Stiles's.

It's awkward in the way that running into someone you had numerous one night stands with three years ago is awkward which wouldn't really be all that much - hey, Stiles has a sort of sporadic longstanding psuedo-agreement with Nico the organic grocer down the street and he sees him weekly at the very least - but it's weird in that they're surrounded by people who are uncomfortable with it.

"So I hear congratulations are in order," Stiles says into the silence. "So...congratulations." He gives Derek a lame thumbs up.

"Thanks," Derek says, completely straight-faced except Stiles knows him well enough to see the amusement in his eyes.

"Let's go into the kitchen and have some cupcakes," Allison says and that gets everyone moving.

"I'll be out front," Isaac says and abruptly turns around and heads outside.

"I'll come with," Erica says to his back, widening her eyes at Stiles meaningfully before trailing after him.

Stiles shrugs and pushes open the kitchen door just in time to hear Lydia say, "I'm not partial to deer. I find that it's too gamey."

Boyd's sitting across from her and they're both picking at a frankly huge half-demolished pot roast. "No, see, the trick is to marinate it overnight."

*

"So, marriage, huh?" Stiles asks once everyone else has decamped to different parts of the house. "That's a pretty huge step."

Derek regards him carefully for a beat before replying. "What exactly do you know about handfasting rituals?"

Stiles scrunches up his nose, thinks back on all the lore he'd inhaled the first couple of years of their acquaintance and can't really come up with much. "Not a whole lot," he says, grabbing a beer and a soda from the fridge and coming to sit next to Derek on the counter. "Like all I can picture is a ribbon binding together a pair of clasped hands," he continues, handing Derek the beer.

"That's..." Derek frowns, pops the cap off his beer. "Well, that's the ritual of it, yeah."

"Anything else I need to know?" Stiles asks, reaching past Derek to snag an apple out of the fruit bowl.

Derek inhales sharply then just as abruptly asks, "What happened to the painter?"

Stiles brow furrows in confusion. "What painter?"

"The painter you were seeing."

Stiles chews on his lip. "I still don't know who you're talking about, buddy. Painter? The only painter I know is, well, Cory and I haven't seen her in like two years? Yeah, two years is about right."

"Cory," Derek says evenly and Stiles can see a glimmer of something dangerous in his eyes which makes absolutely no sense at all.

"Yeah," Stiles nods, taking a huge noisy bite out of the apple. "I used to work with her at the coffee shop." And really, those were the four most horrific years of Stiles's existence and that includes being chased by supernatural monsters. "She was great; majored in Art. I helped set up her graduate exhibition."

Derek's just keeps staring at him so Stiles shrugs and fills in both sides of the conversation. "She's the only painter I know if you don't count whatshisname - Thierry, Terrance? - whatever his name was. He painted houses for a living. He got drunk a lot as a vocation. That was a dark, dark time in Danny's life. Luckily, Lydia shamed him into dumping that guy."

Derek's hand suddenly closes around his wrist. "Stiles."

"Yeah?" And the next thing he knows, he's being shoved against the counter and Derek's got one hand cupping his face while the other's keeping his wrist pinned to the countertop and oh fuck, they're kissing and it's just as good as Stiles remembers and he doesn't really mean to but he can't keep the moans from spilling out of his mouth and Derek takes shameless advantage of that and kisses him deeper.

Some small rational part of his brain is telling him that there's a good reason they shouldn't be doing this but even that part gives up the ghost when Derek hitches him up so he's sitting on the counter and Derek's between his legs and, oh god, he's missed this. A lot. And it's probably down to instinct that he's got his hands buried in Derek's hair and his legs wrapped around Derek's waist and it's like the first time all over again and this really cannot be happening now.

"Derek," he gasps forbiddingly once they part for breath. He presses his hands against Derek's chest but Derek doesn't seem to take the hint and just pushes close, sucks Stiles's lower lip into his mouth and that is just dirty pool and Stiles goes boneless because he has yet to build up a natural resistance to that.

Stiles decides to pull out the big guns and while it may not be fair, it's justifiable because Derek's just playing dirty. "No. Stop."

And Derek just stops, pulls back and looks at Stiles with such heartbreaking concern, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over Stiles's hipbones. "What?"

"We can't do this anymore," Stiles says, not looking him in the eye. "You're getting _married_." He tries and mostly fails at smacking Derek's hands off of him.

"Handfasted. But - "

"Whatever," Stiles flails. "Semantics."

"No, listen - "

"No, _you_ listen," Stiles says, looking up and meeting Derek dead on. "I'm not going to be _that_ person. So. This is me. Saying No."

And because he'd promised, Derek lets him go.

"Okay," Stiles says, taking a deep breath and putting his clothes back in order. "Okay."

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some more conversations appended by flashback sex. Amended the warnings to include knotting and, just to be sure, unsafe sex (even though I think it's fanon(?) that werewolves can't catch or pass on STIs).

For the rest of the day, Stiles makes sure that there are at least two other people in the room with him and Derek while ignoring the pointed looks Derek keeps shooting him and the fact that everyone else has picked up on the weird vibe they're both so obviously emitting.

Stiles even goes as far as following Boyd and Allison into the second bedroom (all but formally dubbed as Allison and Scott's) when she starts making pained faces and rubbing at her back. Scott gives terrible massages because he's too scared of hurting her while Boyd can apparently all but go into chiropractic practice as a second career.

"What's going on, Stiles?" she asks, piling all the pillows in the room in front of her then proceeding to lean into them.

"You're acting twitchier than usual," Boyd adds while settling behind her.

"Usual? What do you mean 'usual'? We haven't seen each other in _years_ so maybe I've gotten more hyper in the interim," Stiles says, plopping onto the twee little rocker in one corner of the room.

There's a long pause where they just look at him before Allison turns her head and tells Boyd, "You're right; very, very twitchy."

Stiles opens his mouth, ready to take offense at that when Boyd cuts in with, "He's not on any meds that I can smell."

"Hey!" Stiles says, offended. "I'll have you guys know that Dr Bernstein's said he'd never seen someone display the kind of improvement I have, okay? And like I haven't needed Adderall since I moved."

"We didn't mean it like that, Stiles," Allison says, contrite. "We're sorry."

"Yeah," Boyd grunts while digging his thumbs into Allison's shoulder blades.

She lets out a grunt and then moans into the pile of pillows, which is kind of more than freaking Stiles out because it's Allison and he's never ever thought of her in a sexual way and doesn't want to start any time in the foreseeable forever.

"So," Stiles says, trying to make things less awkward for himself - Allison's completely oblivious, she's blissed out on Boyd's magic fingers but Boyd's obviously aware of his discomfort if his smirk is anything to go by, "do you guys know the baby's sex yet?"

Allison smiles dreamily at him. "We've decided we want to be surprised."

"It's annoying," Boyd says.

Allison shushes him.

"What, you can't _smell_ the baby's sex?" Stiles asks, which he thinks is a totally legit question.

Boyd bares his teeth at him. "This isn't Twilight, asshole."

"Hey, you're the one who brought up being able to smell when I'm on my meds."

"That's different."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says because if nothing, running with the pack's made him learn when to pick his battles. Well, most of the time, anyway. "But how sure are you about that?" He picks up the pair of tiny beaded pink slippers he'd spotted on top of the dresser. "You guys positive Scott isn't holding out on you?"

Allison laughs, makes gimme motions with her hands. Stiles tosses the slippers at her.

"Erica mailed them to us when she was in India." She smiles and wiggles the slippers at Boyd who rolls his eyes. "She's positive we're having a girl."

"It's gonna be a boy," Boyd says firmly.

"A gentleman's wager!" Stiles crows. "Why didn't you guys just say so? What're the stakes?"

Allison joins him in looking expectantly at Boyd. "Yeah, you guys were never really clear on that."

"That's between her and me." Stiles would swear on his dad's health that Boyd's blushing. Stiles wants to comment but Boyd throws him a quelling glare. "Moving on."

Stiles scrunches his face up at him but complies. "So India, huh? I thought she was roaming around Amsterdam, if the care package she sent Isaac last month was anything to go by."

Boyd shrugs. "The girl gets around. I found her in Switzerland before we went and got you guys."

"Speaking of," Stiles says, picking at a hole in his jeans, "when am I gonna meet the blushing bride? And where's the wedding gonna be?"

"Handfasting," Allison and Boyd correct in unison.

"Same difference."

Boyd and Allison share a meaningful look between them and then Allison says, tentative, "What do you think happens during a handfasting ceremony?"

Stiles frowns, doesn't know how he managed to get caught in this situation and, for all his endless supply of inane babble, can't find a reasonable way to dodge the question without making things seem suspicious. "Like marriage, you know. A wedding. Only with more archaic rituals and esoteric symbolism."

"That's not _exactly_ what it is," Allison says on the tail end of a huff while Boyd shakes his head at Stiles, so very much like passing judgement.

"No?"

"No," Boyd says, deeply unimpressed.

"If it were, wouldn't you think me and Scott would have wanted one?"

"Oh."

"Yeah," Boyd confirms, then goes back to working the kinks out of Allison's back.

"So...?" Stiles prods.

"So, it's more like those ceremonial marriages between European royalty, I think," Allison says, humming to herself thoughtfully. "I don't think I'm explaining this as well as I should but it's more like a contract? Wait, no, that's not completely accurate."

"All marriages _are_ contracts," Stiles says. "I witnessed one when you and Scott got married."

"I know!" she laughs then bites her lip. "It's - oh, I'm not thinking right. Boyd?"

"It's like a business arrangement."

"You make it sound so horrible," she chastises.

Boyd shrugs. "Hey, you weren't there when deal went down."

Allison purses her lips at him and he must be the only person immune to Allison's soulful looks because he just moves over and starts working on her feet. She sighs. "But yeah, that's what it is, too, I guess."

Stiles feels like the rug's been pulled out from under his feet. "I'm going to go...air. I mean, breathe. Get some air, yeah, that."

Allison smiles at him, completely understanding, and Boyd waves a hand in acknowledgement while he stumble-falls his way out of the room, looking for a place to be alone and gather his thoughts.

*

The thing is, this whatever between him and Derek, it's never suffered from lack of affection from either party. He and Derek were friends first (for whatever definition of the term _friend_ when up until they fell into bed together their relationship had mostly consisted of snarking and threatening and saving each other's asses) and everything else after that was just a nice perk.

Whatever else anyone thought about them, their casual fucks had never really followed any sort of regular, monogamous pattern. They'd mostly just hung out, usually surrounded by the rest of the pack, and tried to keep the pack from getting into the sort of stupidity that was natural to all of them by that point.

Stiles moved away because he felt constrained by the _smallness_ of Beacon Hills, of being pigeonholed by everyone else long before he could sort himself out into the kind of person he is now. He and Lydia were most alike in that sense. If everyone else attributed his leaving to a breakdown of philosophical ideals between him and Derek, well, that's their problem and not his.

He and Derek have been butting heads since the day they met - it's their thing.

What that all means is that Derek is still his friend and that it turns his stomach to think of Derek sacrificing himself and his happiness to some bloodless merger to protect a legacy that died with his sister and Peter Hale and the burning of the Hale house.

He could be wrong, though, and maybe Derek loves his fiance and this is his version of killing two birds with one stone but Derek's never been the pragmatic type and it's a shot in the dark but Stiles doesn't stop hoping against hope that Derek's finally found a way to stop being so _alone_.

There's nothing worse than being alone.

*

He's trying to work out exactly _how_ he's going to ask Derek about his impending nuptials when Isaac finds him and drags him away from the balcony and down the hallway into the master bedroom.

Derek's already shirtless on top of the covers and Stiles looks up to the heavens in exasperation because this is so _not_ what he was thinking of. Isaac makes an impatient noise and all but tackles Stiles onto the bed, rolling them around so that they're essentially an Isaac sandwich.

Stiles manages to convey 'We-need-to-talk' at Derek via a series of eyebrow wiggles and an emphatic widening of his eyes. Derek parries back with a 'Duh' while not changing his expression at all.

Stiles nods, satisfied, and bunks down to nap for a few hours.

*

It's an undeniable fact that Isaac's father has left behind more than just physical marks of his cruelty, that the scar underneath his eye and the lighter patches on his back where skin grew over the burn marks aren't his father's only legacy.

Isaac's more than just touch-starved and his trauma has manifested in deeper and more damaging ways than anyone is able to reach. Physical affection is the easiest thing to offer and the one that Isaac lets himself need the most and it's something Stiles is more than eager to give.

It's a topic of conversation that Stiles never again wants to bring up with Derek, not because it wasn't difficult enough in the first place but because if he has to do it again then it would mean that Derek isn't really the person he's come to respect.

It's also the reason that - despite their glaring philosophical disagreements - he's okay with Derek's monthly visits to San Francisco.

Derek's essential to Isaac in a way that Stiles will never be able to match or even begin to comprehend but he's okay with that.

What he's not really alright with are the cuddlefests every time Derek comes over. Hey, at least he hates it less than Danny does, which doesn't really say much.

"Okay, not that I don't like being pressed up against a really hot guy for three hours, it's just that I don't relish having to do it with a guy I don't have a chance in hell with and my three housemates," Danny says before stumbling off Stiles's bed and out of the room after one such session.

Lydia stays for another hour before yawning and getting up, saying something that could be in the English language but has too many incomprehensible mathematical terms mixed in that Stiles immediately assumes that it has something to do with her work.

Then it's just him, Isaac and Derek languishing in the stray bit of sunlight pouring in from the window and intermittently dozing off between bouts of snuggling.

They only get up when Isaac bolts upright and out of the bed at eight on the dot, apparently running late for his shift at the bar.

"So, that was marginally less awkward than usual," Stiles says, watching Derek pick up his jacket from where he'd tossed it over Stiles's desk chair earlier this afternoon.

"Maybe it's because you stopped doing a running commentary this time around," Derek says, moving to stand next to Stiles by the door.

"Oh, admit it, dude, you love my commentary. It adds a surreal color to the proceedings."

"No, I don't," Derek says, inching close.

"You totally do," Stiles counters, moving back. "I made you laugh last time."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah."

"Shut up."

And Stiles does because Derek has him pressed up against the door and his mouth is a hairsbreadth away from Stiles's so Stiles does the reasonable thing and leans in to kiss him.

What starts out as slow and languid quickly devolves into frantic and desperate and then it's a competition of who can get the other's clothes off the fastest and Derek is such a fucking cheat because he starts sucking bruises into Stiles's neck and pulls Stiles's shirt over his head. Stiles retaliates buy undoing Derek's jeans and getting a hand around his dick.

"Fuck," Derek breathes and Stiles smirks at him, which may have been premature as Derek proceeds to all but rip his jeans off of him.

"Not fair," Stiles bites out just before Derek kisses him.

"Stay there," Derek says when they part for air. Stiles nods, panting, rubbing himself lazily as he watches Derek rummage around his nightstand for lube.

Derek finds it, comes back, but just stands there staring at Stiles, rapt.

"Oh god," Stiles moans, his movements becoming frantic. "Get over here, dumbass."

Derek grins, one arm coming up to fence Stiles in, and licks at his open mouth. Stiles is just not having that so he fists his free hand in Derek's hair and pulls him _in_. And it's good, it's so good and he could come from this only he hears the tell-tale click of the bottle of lube snapping shut and then Derek's hand is running down his spine, trailing wet all the way down, and he realizes that no, he needs _more_ , needs Derek inside, needs him to stop being such a fucking tease.

"Derek," he says, trying for commanding but ending up with desperate. "Come on."

Derek grins, smug, and just rubs his fingers over Stiles's hole and Stiles is just not having that, no way, so he grabs Derek's wrist, holds him still and pushes himself open against those fingers, taking them in easily.

"Look at you," Derek groans, mouthing at Stiles's neck, and Stiles is very pleased with himself.

He inches Derek's jeans down his hips and pulls his dick out of his pants. Derek's spurting pre-come _everywhere_ and it never fails to bring things up another notch, this sign of how much Derek wants him. Sometimes he wonders, if he and Derek did more than just screw around occasionally, if they could stand to live in the same city, if they did this on a regular basis, could he take Derek just like this, with only his slick easing the way.

He rubs his thumb over the head of Derek's cock, getting his fingers wet, teasing. Derek growls, presses two fingers against Stiles's prostate in retaliation. Stiles bites back a surprised scream.

"Okay, enough, enough," he pants against Derek's cheek, hitching his leg up and wrapping it around Derek's waist.

Derek ignores him, keeps his fingers pressed inside. "No."

"Yes, very much yes," Stiles says and tilts his hips just _so_ and slips a finger in next to Derek's. "See?" he pants.

Derek makes a sound like the wind's been knocked out of him, slides his fingers out and holds himself pressed still against Stiles.

"Now, please, now," Stiles moans, holding himself open with two fingers and then Derek's pushing in, long and hard and, oh god, he's missed this so, so much.

"Oh my god," Stiles says when Derek's all the way in. His arms come up to wrap around Derek's neck, wanting every part of him as close as possible. And because they've always been attuned with each other in this, if nothing else, Derek grabs the back of Stiles's knee and uses it to life him up against the wall and starts fucking into him in earnest.

The stretch burns and Stiles holds on for dear life, nails scratching marks into Derek's shoulders, as he tries to give as good as he's getting. No one knows his body as well as Derek does and there are just some things you can't train yourself out of, so when Derek presses his hand, huge and hot, against Stiles's stomach, it's enough, it's more than enough to send him over the edge.

It feels like he doesn't stop coming; Derek fucking him through it and past it until he feels like he's coming a second time, which is just physically impossible. He feels himself clench tight against it and then Derek's hips are stuttering and then he's coming too and Stiles can feel the base of Derek's cock stretching him almost to the point of pain and the hot spill of Derek's come inside him.

Derek's shivering against him and Stiles runs his hands along every bit of skin he can reach, soothing Derek through the aftershocks.

Once Derek calms down, Stiles tilts his head up, kisses him soft and sweet - tries and fails not to smile when Derek maneuvers them back and down to lie on the bed.

"You still have all your clothes on," Stiles says.

Derek just grunts and buries his face in the crook of Stiles's neck.

"Just saying," Stiles says, and wonders if it's a good idea to nap while waiting for Derek's knot to go down. It's too late in the evening to take a nap but sometimes it takes ages before they can separate but if Derek's not even going to keep Stiles entertained through it then sleep sounds like a good idea.

Stiles absently reaches down and runs a finger against his rim, stretched taut and blood hot. It feels good, if oversensitive, like a bruise you just can't leave alone.

He doesn't really realize that he's getting squirmy and more than just comfortably sore until Derek starts mouthing at his nipple.

"Ungh," Stiles groans, pushing up against Derek's mouth.

"Again?" Derek looks up again.

"I don't think so," Stiles says.

"You're hard," Derek says, deadpan, and reaches down to stroke his cock.

Stiles whimpers, starts rubbing at his rim in earnest. "I need - " He pushes up against Derek, rolling them over until he's straddling Derek's hips. "Can you -?" He starts rocking.

"Yeah," Derek answers, and Stiles can feel Derek's come spilling down his thighs as the knot shrinks, as Derek gets hard again.

Stiles bites his lip and rides Derek, slow and thorough, feeling well-used and wanted.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get this done before next Monday`s episode because I`m constantly writing in fear of shit getting Jossed. Happy reading and feedback and criticism is welcome as always!

Any hope of him and Derek talking about things goes out the window the moment he wakes up the next morning and finds himself tangled in the sheets, buried under Isaac and Erica. Which is great, just great. Derek has a (endlessly irritating) habit of knowing exactly where you do not want him to be and exploiting it to the fullest extent of his capability.

So Stiles resigns himself to hunting Derek down, with a slight detour into the kitchen when he's drawn by the siren song of coffee and the mostly unacknowledged dread he's feeling about having the conversation.

He stumbles in on Jackson and Lydia snarking at each other across the kitchen table.

"Nice shirt," Lydia says, coffee mug cupped between her hands. "Last season's Prada?"

"Love what you've done with your hair," Jackson bites back. "Good to know Supercuts carries that shade of flaming red."

"That's funny coming from someone with homemade highlights."

"I'm not the one still wearing the same shade of lipstick since fifth grade," Jackson says, then glances at Stiles who's trying to sneakily make his way to the coffee pot on the counter behind Lydia. "Speaking of hot messes."

Lydia harrumphs - like seriously that's a noise Stiles has only heard grandpas and people from black and white movies make - and snags the coffee pot away from Stiles's fingers, glaring him down into one of the kitchen chairs. Stiles wilts and goes where he's directed because Lydia is always frightening and even more so when she's been bantering with Jackson. Stiles is almost positive that this is their way of showing affection for each other but he can't be sure seeing as how the last time they saw each other had resulted in their backyard picnic table in San Francisco being given up as collateral damage.

"Stilinski," Jackson says evenly while judging every molecule of Stiles's being.

"Jackson," Stiles says while accepting the mug of coffee Lydia's poured for him. Well, it's half coffee and half milk because Stiles's caffeine intake is strictly rationed in that the last time he had more than three cups of coffee, he had started bouncing off the walls and talking everyone's ears off. Stiles doesn't lodge a protest because he sees the strain of another restless night in the corners of her mouth.

"Didn't think you'd be showing your face here any time soon," Jackson says, leaning back against the counter.

"Why?" Lydia cuts in before Stiles can come up with a reply. "Did you somehow mistake Stiles for yourself?"

"No," Jackson answers, smiling sweetly. "I'm going by the fact that he hasn't showed his face around here in half a decade."

"Awwww," Stiles says, clutching at his heart. "Did you really miss me _that_ much, Jackson? Do you want a hug? Come here, gimme a hug." Stiles stands and holds his arms out, making good on his threat.

Jackson cringes, inches away. "Get away from me. You're pathetic."

"Your lips say no but your body's saying yes, baby," Stiles croons and starts sort of chasing Jackson across the room while Lydia looks on, amused.

"You're kidding yourself," Jackson says. "Not even if you were the last orifice on earth and my dick was hard as nails."

"I don't know why we ever broke up," Lydia deadpans.

"You sweet-talker, you," Stiles grins and then runs smack-dab into the kitchen door.

"Crap!" Scott yelps while Stiles rolls around on the floor, clutching at his face. "Stiles, Stiles, are you okay? I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Oh my god, we need ice! How many fingers am I holding up?"

Stiles groans, bats his hand away, and pulls himself upright by basically clawing his way up Scott's arm. "Ow."

"Oh geez," Scott says, directing him to a chair. "You're okay, right?"

Someone slaps an ice pack on his face and Stiles yelps, looking up to see Erica pick up the coffee pot and slide into the seat next to him. "Ouch, but thanks."

She shrugs, puts her feet on his lap, and chugs coffee straight out of the pot. "I'm hungry," she announces.

"Injured," Stiles answers, pointing at his face.

Erica glares pointedly at Scott until he sighs. "Fine, fine. I'll do it."

"No," Lydia says, crossing her arms. "You're forbidden; I remember. House rule number two. We might even have written it down somewhere."

"I will gut and eat someone raw if I'm not fed in the next however minutes," Erica declares, setting the empty coffee pot down on the table with a bang.

"Just because that's something I so dearly do not want to see," Lydia says and grabs her car keys from the hook next to the door before making for the garage. "I'm going to get pancakes. And no, I don't care what you want." And then she barks out, "Jackson."

Jackson goes after her, declaring, "I'm driving."

"Hey, get vegan ones!" Scott calls out. "Meat and dairy's putting Allison off right now."

"A baby werewolf vegan," Stiles says.

"You should've been there when they told her parents," Erica says. "That was _fun_."

"Oh no, that is one thing I am very, very grateful not to have been part of. I give thanks to all known and unknown deities that I was absent from that conversation. Just thinking of Allison's mom makes my balls want to crawl into my body for protection."

Scott knocks his knee against Stiles's. "Man, I could've used your support then."

"I gave you a script, didn't I?"

"Still."

"Sorry, buddy." Stiles pats his shoulder.

"That's sweet," Erica says. She even sounds somewhat sincere about it.

Suddenly, she and Scott freeze.

"Oh, okay," Scott says suddenly.

"What?" Stiles has to ask, seeing as he is not in possession of supernatural hearing.

"I didn't think we'd be doing it so soon, but okay."

Erica grins wickedly at him. "Time to meet our new step-mommy."

*

Patricia - "call me Pat" - is basically what you would picture a female werewolf in human form to be, if normal people thought about that kind of thing. Stiles isn't a normal person and since this is his life, the thought has crossed his mind once or twice. She's tall and rangy and moves with the same economy of motion Derek does. Like Derek, there's something inherently wild and dangerous about her. Unlike Derek, she smiles a lot.

Well, Stiles is hoping he's interpreting that right. After years of exposure to werewolves, he'd like to think that he knows the difference between a smile and baring of teeth.

"You must be Stiles," she says, immediately zeroing in on him. She gets into his personal space, which is to be expected, and Stiles tries to project as much non-threatening vibes at her as much as possible.

"Yep, that's me," he says and tries not jump out of his skin when her nose brushes too close against his ear.

" _Oh,_ " she breathes when she pulls away. She grins at him, just one side of her mouth tilted to expose the sharp hint of teeth, her eyes bright with understanding.

"Pat," Derek says, forbidding.

She steps back, takes her place by Derek's side, but her eyes never leaves Stiles's face.

"So, nice to meet you?" Stiles says, offering his hand.

She takes it, grin evolving into a full-blown smile. "Pleasure," she says, shooting an indecipherable look Derek's way before pulling Stiles close and leading him into the living room. "I've heard _so much_ about you, but I'd like to hear it from the original source."

"I haven't heard anything about you? ...Not that that was supposed to be an insult or anything. Or a challenge! Definitely no challenging here. It's just that everyone likes being secretive and inscrutable. It's a thing. Is it a werewolf thing, though? Do all of you guys do that or is it just Derek's special brand of driving me insane?"

"Don't worry, I'll tell you everything you want to know," she says, then shuts the double doors firmly in Derek's face, and then they're effectively alone, together.

This doesn't look like it's going to go well, in Stiles's opinion.

*

Shit gets weird. And fast.

Pat's friendly, too friendly, if you ask him. She's intense, which Stiles writes off as just her being a wolf, but there's also the constant touching and sitting just way too damn close. It's almost like she's studying him.

She is a good listener, though, he'll give her that.

It gets even worse when Lydia comes back with breakfast and everyone decamps to the dining room. Pat somehow manages to seat him between her and Derek, sliding in just a tad too close for comfort next to him. Stiles would scoot away, only that would put him right up against Derek and he's not sure what the etiquette is when faced with the over-attentiveness of the future mate of your not really Alpha who you used to have carnal relations with.

"More syrup?" Pat asks sweetly, holding up the bottle. Before that, she wanted to know if he needed more coffee or juice or if he wanted her share of the bacon.

"I'm good," Stiles blurts out.

"You sure?"

Derek growls at her.

She bares her teeth at him, half-playful and half-serious.

"So, Patricia," Lydia says, appearing not at all bothered by the tension in the room, "will you be moving to Beacon Hills after the ceremony?"

"I wasn't really planning on it, but that could change."

"Based on what?"

Pat ignores her, leans an elbow on the table, and asks Stiles a question instead. "So, Stiles. Will you be staying long?"

"Nope," he answers, popping a forkful of pancake into his mouth. "Papers to grade, students to fail, professors to wrangle. And Lydia's got people to terrify into submission, so we're leaving right after we send you and Derek off on your honeymoon."

Pat touches his wrist. "Are you sure you couldn't be persuaded otherwise?"

Across the table, Isaac visibly bristles.

Derek stands abruptly. "Pat."

Pat shoots him one last look, stroking his wrist meaningfully, before turning to follow Derek out into the solar.

"Okay, anyone else get the freaky serial killer vibes she's putting off?" Stiles flails, exactly a minute after the door shuts behind her. "Like seriously, I'm so, so scared that she's going to kill me and wear my skin like a cheap suit."

"Um," is Scott's contribution.

Isaac gets up and takes Pat's chair, pressing up against Stiles's side. Stiles pats him on the knee, grateful for the solidarity.

"She doesn't want to skin you," Erica says, matter-of-fact. "She wants to mount you."

"Oh my god," Scott groans, resting his forehead on the table. Allison pets his hair consolingly.

"Anyone else have a terrible mental image of a wolf with a strap on fucking Stiles?" Jackson asks, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon.

Erica starts laughing hysterically and Stiles starts clawing at his face while Scott makes pained noises, curling up with his head on Allison's lap.

"Jackson!" Allison hisses, frowning.

"Why? Dear lord, why?" Stiles wails. "I was doing everything right! I all but rolled over and bared my neck in submissiveness. I will even go and do that to stop her from even considering mounting me!"

"That's it; we're leaving," Lydia says, pushing back from her chair and signaling for Isaac to grab Stiles.

"You can't!" Scott pops back upright.

"You have to meet the rest of the Fordhams," Allison says. "It's apparently a very important part of the ritual."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "I just meant for _today_."

"Oh."

"We'll see you tomorrow," Lydia says before leading the way to the front door. Stiles follows, waving goodbye listlessly at everyone while Isaac brings up the rear.

"Where are you heading off to in such a hurry?" Pat says, appearing from out of nowhere and shaving five years off of Stiles's life.

"Out," Lydia answers flippantly, pulling the front door open.

Pat regards her for a long moment and it's very subtle but she backs off. "I hope I didn't scare you off, Stiles," she says instead.

"Scared, who, me?" Stiles says because he is a glutton for punishment.

"That's good," Pat nods. "It'd be a shame if you missed out on meeting the rest of my pack."

"I'll be there," Stiles says, making a little finger gun. "With bells on, even."

"You don't have to dress up; I'm sure they'll love you just the way you are," she says and then Derek's right there and he's herding her back into the kitchen.

Stiles is also doing his own fair share of keeping inter-pack relations from deteriorating by pushing Isaac and Lydia out the front door but he stops to grab Derek by the front of his T-shirt before he leaves.

"We need to talk. Soon."

Derek grunts. Stiles doesn't let go until he gets a grudging nod from Derek.

"Good. I'm holding you to that."

And then he's out the door and in Lydia's car, speeding away from all the crazy.

*

Lydia and Isaac patently refuse to talk about what just went down at breakfast no matter how many times Stiles pesters them and tries to catch them off guard. He even gets Danny on the car's speakerphone to try and help him as they cruise idly down Main Street.

"Just to clarify," Danny says, voice echoing strangely in the confined space of the car. "She was _challenging_ you?"

"She was all up in my grill; ready to rip my throat out."

"No, she wasn't," Lydia comments idly as she turns to park in front of a little bistro that's taken over the old hardware store. She ignores the daggers Isaac's shooting her way.

"I don't know how everyone says you're better socialized than I am when you think that was normal behavior!" Stiles waves his arms around.

"I didn't say it was normal," Lydia says, pulling up the parking brake. "And I'm bored with this conversation already." She snatches Stiles's phone out of his fingers and turns off the car. "How's Chu coming along with figuring out the Collatz conjecture? Has he decided to cede victory to me?"

Once again, Stiles wonders what heinous acts against helpless creatures he has committed in his previous life to deserve the friends he has in this one.

*

They pull up next to the patrol car parked in front of Stiles's dad's house a little after five PM. Stiles falls out of the car in relief since in the six hours they'd been roaming around town, Lydia's managed to accumulate about enough clothes to open her own boutique and she'd had him and Isaac somehow cram it all into her little sportscar.

Boyd's leaning against the hood of the patrol car, clearly just heading off duty if his wrinkled uniform's anything to go by.

"Hey," Stiles says, waving exhaustedly as he walks past him, following Lydia up the front porch. Boyd nods at him in passing and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Boyd catch Isaac by the wrist. Stiles exerts what's left of his near-depleted willpower not to look back.

It turns out that not being nosy isn't going to be a problem because Lydia's staring down some stranger in a deputy's uniform on the front stoop.

"Hi," the guy says politely. "I'm waiting for the sheriff."

"Oh?" Lydia raises an eyebrow.

"I'm Paul. Fordham." He holds out his hand. "Patricia's brother."

Stiles learns from his mistakes, _okay_ , and he is so not going to put himself in another freaky Criminal Minds-lite situation. "I'm Stiles," he says, waving awkwardly instead. "The sheriff's son," he adds meaningfully while surreptitiously inching behind Lydia.

And, oh fuck, Paul actually _sways_ forward, like he can't help himself.

"Back off," Lydia says, holding an arm out. "We already went through this whole song and dance with your sister."

Paul doesn't follow them into the house but Stiles can tell that he really, really, wants to.

*

"Holy fuck!" Stiles yelps, coming awake with a start, Derek's face an inch away from his. "What the fuck, Derek!"

Isaac groans in annoyance beside him and curls deeper into the covers.

Even in the dark, Derek's shadow manages to be irritated and petulant at the same time. "You wanted to talk, so talk."

"Not at - " Stiles squints at the clock on his bed stand "-two in the morning!"

Derek grunts. "If you want me to leave - "

"Well you're here now," Stiles huffs, rolling out of bed and blindly groping for a sweater because the heating in the house is for shit. "Just, shhh, okay?" He takes Derek down to the kitchen, making sure to be especially quiet when they pass the guest bedroom where Lydia's sleeping.

"Okay," Stiles says after he's turned on the light, put the kettle on and groped around the cupboards for the Ovaltine.

Derek's leaned up against the counter, glaring at him. "What?"

Stiles pulls a face. "Fine, Mr. Broodypants. Can we start with all the weirdness this morning? Can you maybe tell Patricia to, I don't know, maybe not try to kill me in my sleep?"

Derek's brows draw together in confusion. "What?"

"Did she somehow smell that we made out yesterday? Oh god, she did. I am a dead man. That was a terrible idea." Stiles slaps a hand across his face. "I'm not completely to blame here, you know? You started it. She should skin _you_ and wear you as a suit. Not me."

"What are you talking about?"

Stiles gapes at him. "How are you so thick? Patricia! This morning! With the Gawr!" He mimes pouncing.

"This is about Pat wanting to jump you?"

Stiles nods, exasperated.

"You can't expect me to believe this is the first time someone's ever made a pass at you," Derek bites out. "Look, I told her to back off, okay? You're clearly not interested."

"Oh. My. God." Stiles needs to sit down. The chair's too far away but that's okay, the floor's just fine.

"Stiles?"

The kettle whistles.

"Stiles?" Derek moves to help him up. 

Stiles brushes him off and scrambles to his feet. "Don't touch me, okay? Keep your bigamous werewolf hands to yourself! I can't believe you! I can't believe _her_! You guys aren't even married yet and you both can't keep your hands to yourselves!"

Derek sighs, turns off the stove and completely ignores him.

Stiles manages to feel his way to one of the kitchen chairs and collapses onto it, head in his hands. This is so, so bad.

He looks up when Derek sets a mug of hot chocolate in front of him.

"Drink," he orders.

Stiles glares at him but picks up the mug anyway, blowing across the steaming surface.

"This is why you shouldn't have run away from me yesterday," Derek says, going to sit across from him.

"Why? Would it have made this whole ménage à trois aspect of your impending nuptials more understandable?"

"Would you just shut up for a second and let me finish?"

"Ugh, fine. Nothing you tell me's going to be any worse than what's already happening. Unless there's a bestiality aspect to the proceedings. If there is, I might have to go apologize then thank Jackson for warning me, so please let there not be because along with the whole scarring me for life thing, it'd just be adding insult to injury for me to have to say Jackson of all people was right - "

Derek slaps his hands down on the table. "Stop."

Stiles's mouth snaps shut.

"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about, okay, let's be clear on that." Derek sighs, shoulders slumping as he rubs at the bridge of his nose. "What's _obvious_ is that you've jumped to some pretty fucking messed up conclusions about this thing between me and Pat."

Stiles opens his mouth to jump in but Derek glares him down.

"Let me finish." He holds Stiles's gaze. "This thing between Pat and me, it's strictly political. They need the land to expand and I need to keep my territory. I don't have much of a pack left and, no, before you say anything, I don't blame you for that in any way, okay? But I've got to face the reality here. We're outnumbered. This is the only reasonable option. I'm laying my cards out on the table. I don't love Pat; she doesn't love me either. But I've weighed the options and this is the best one."

There's a pregnant pause and then Stiles lets out a breath. "Derek." He shakes his head, gets up to go to Derek's side. "That's...wow. That's messed up."

"People get married for less."

"But you guys are different, don't even think of trying to convince me otherwise," Stiles says against the lump forming in his throat. "And regardless, you guys made each other a promise. She shouldn't be sniffing around me like that in front of you and the pack. Kinda like yesterday shouldn't have happened."

Derek leans back, crosses his arms. "Stiles, part of the deal is that she's free to go and find her mate, even after all this."

"After this ritual, aren't _you_ going to be her mate?"

Derek shakes her head, rueful. "Man, I keep forgetting how much you still don't know about us."

Stiles tamps down on the urge to strangle Derek. "It's because you refuse to _tell_ me. And let's not rehash this old song and dance again, okay? I don't get a lot of things about you and I don't know a lot of things about werewolves. So why don't you do what you always do and tell me on a need to know basis?"

Derek looks like he's about to argue for a second but manages to hold himself back. "An Alpha's mate is different. Right now, Pat's dad's the Alpha of her pack but once he's dead, she'll be their Alpha. She needs to have the freedom to find a mate that will help strengthen her pack. Complement her power and compensate for her weaknesses."

"And she thinks little old me's just the man for the job," Stiles jokes.

"You don't need me to stroke your ego, Stiles," Derek says, wry.

"Buddy, that's the last thing I'd ever accuse you of doing."

Derek blinks. "Stiles, you've already turned down two Alphas, of course she's going to want you."

Stiles still can't get past one point in particular. " _Two?_ "

Derek frowns at him. "Yes, two. Me and Peter."

" _You?_ " Stiles says, absolutely gobsmacked. "You never _asked_ me."

Derek shrugs, looks away.

"No, no," Stiles says, grabbing Derek by the chin and forcing a confrontation. "You cannot get away with _not_ explaining that."

"What do you want me to say? You were too young at first but that didn't stop me from fucking you, did it? And we couldn't agree on anything and you had and still have your whole fucking life ahead of you! Then you moved, which was the best thing you could've done for yourself. You were never serious about this, Stiles."

"First of all, you do not get to decide what is best for me - "

"Like moving wasn't the best choice you've made in your life?"

"Of course it was!"

"Then why are we yelling at each other if we agree?"

"Fine!" Stiles deflates. "Okay, fine. Just - what about the rest of it? What're you trying to say? That you were in love with me?" Stiles snorts.

Derek huffs out the tail-end of resigned laughter. "Of course I was. Still am."

Stiles doesn't know if he wants to cry or tear his hair out or just stab Derek with a rusty spoon. "Oh my god, you just can't _say_ that!"

"This right here proves my point. You were never serious about it."

Stiles flails. "You changed the rules on me! You changed it without telling me! Or you never told me all the rules in the first place! Like you _always do!_ "

"I thought you didn't want to rehash this."

"That's _so not the point,_ Derek! Don't try to distract me!"

"This _is_ the point, Stiles," he says, catching Stiles by the wrist. "I love you and you like me - but only in the small amount of time we can stand to be around each other."

Stiles tilts his head back, breathes in once, twice, manages to meet Derek's eyes after all that and, yeah, Derek's right. That's them to a tee, alright. Disagreeing and arguing and getting on each other's nerves until the next time they have to work together and then inadvisably falling into bed together and then going right back around to the beginning.

Stiles laughs, sudden and sharp. "We sound like a daytime soap. How're we ever gonna live this down?"

Derek snorts, buries his face against Stiles's knee. "Like any of them have a right to talk."

"You're right," Stiles says, burying a hand in Derek's hair. "Compared to those losers, we've got this shit locked down tight."

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it seems like I'm determined to throw every trope I possibly can into this thing. There's probably just one more chapter left, maybe two, but this is gonna be done before Sunday.
> 
> As always, thanks and enjoy!

Stiles comes to with a start. He experiences a second of disorientation before he remembers last night and then finding himself lying across Derek's chest isn't so surprising anymore. 

Last night was surreal and he can't even honestly say he's even _begun_ to wrap his mind around everything Derek's confessed to him. It's even more unbelievable now in the cold light of day.

He pokes his head up over the couch, sees his dad decidedly _not_ looking their way while he's decisively shucking off his holster, his baton, his handcuffs and his badge and banging them down one by one on the kitchen table.

Great. Time to appease his father.

He sidles out from under Derek's arm, being careful not to wake him, and drapes the afghan he'd been lying under across Derek's chest. It makes for a funny sight, big bad menacing werewolf dozing under a multicolored-vomit of yarn. Stiles manfully resists taking a picture.

Okay, he lied.

He's stuffing his phone back into his pocket when he meets his dad in the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him.

His dad's sitting at the table, hands clasped in front of him. "So."

Stiles holds back a wince. His dad's never been very fond of Derek. Scratch that, he's never liked Derek at all and had mostly tolerated him for Stiles's sake.

"Nothing happened, dad. We had a long overdue talk about some things and then we watched Iron Chef reruns and fell asleep. No need to fumigate the couch or anything."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Stiles does wince this time. "In my defense, you were supposed to be gone all weekend that time."

"Let's not talk about this." His dad starts rubbing his forehead. "Please."

"Hey, you were the one who brought it up."

His dad sighs. "Am I gonna have to bring the shotgun out again?"

"That depends," Stiles hedges. "You still got that cache of silver bullets?"

"Stiles," his dad says warningly.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Stiles collapses into the seat across from him. "Sheesh, dad. Look, it's fine. Me and Derek are good. Don't worry; I'm not gonna go all Julia Roberts in My Best Friend's Wedding."

His dad hesitates. "Son, just. If you need to talk, I'll listen. I may not like hearing it but I'll listen."

"No, I'm fine," Stiles assures him, making an elaborate gesture. "I'm all talked out here. There is nothing I want less than to talk this out any more than I already have. So you can calm yourself, it's not gonna happen."

His dad makes a pained face. "That is not the tone of a man who is sure."

"Pfft," Stiles waves his hand. "It's like you don't know me, dad. When has one word ever sufficed when there are a million words in the English language?"

"Okay," his dad says rolling his eyes.

"Good talk," Stiles grins. "Now whaddaya want me to make for breakfast, or should I say dinner? You feeling like dinner? I'm feeling like pasta right now."

*

Derek managed to sneak out sometime between that awkward conversation and Stiles finishing up with making a full-blown psuedo-English breakfast for five. Stiles doesn't really know it that means anything because Derek's been lurking and sneaking and creeping long before they even knew each other. In the end, he decides that it's a good thing. He wasn't really looking forward to having to sit a meal with both Derek and his dad present.

They head out to the Hale house at five; Stiles leaves a vegan lasagna in the oven for his dad, heating instructions on a smiley-faced post-it note stuck to the handle.

Stiles is stuck in the back seat with Isaac, who'd been especially clingy that day, while Lydia makes displeased comments about being their chauffeur.

"He smells like Derek," Isaac explains, nose pressed against Stiles's shoulder.

" _Really,_ " Lydia says, looking at him via the rear view mirror.

"I don't like what you're implying with your tone, young lady."

"Who's implying anything?" Lydia answers tartly. "Derek spent the night. Obviously."

Stiles scowls at her.

Lydia waits him out.

"Ugh, nothing happened!" Damn. He _always_ breaks. It's so unfair.

Isaac sniffs him. "Yep."

"Really."

"Yes, really!" Stiles flails. Isaac makes a disgruntled whine and traps Stiles's right arm between him and the seat. "We talked, it was late, we fell asleep in front of the TV."

"Hm," is all Lydia has to say about that.

"What did you talk about?" Isaac asks.

"Oh, right," Stiles says, accusatory. "Mostly about why Patricia was all up in my face, yesterday - thanks a lot for not telling me, you assholes."

Isaac growls.

"You're too good for her," Lydia says, dismissive.

Stiles is touched by that. "Aw, I knew you loved me."

"You're ours," Lydia says. "You're not saying yes to her. Who would sort my laundry and take them to the dry cleaners otherwise?"

Stiles scowls. "Thanks a lot."

Isaac presses a palm up against his chest and stares him down. "You're not going with her."

Stiles bats his hand away. "Of course I'm not going with her. God, you two. I don't even know her."

"And you're not going to," Isaac says, and it would be menacing if he didn't come off sounding like a petulant puppy.

"What else did you talk about?"Lydia asks.

"Who said there was anything else?"

"You did," Lydia says in her pithiest tone.

Stiles considers making something up. He's been pack for a long time and being pack means that nothing is ever considered sacred - there's only willful ignorance. He thinks about Derek and his own emotions all tangled up inside him which he hasn't even begun to contemplate unraveling. There's loneliness and then there's privacy and in the end he settles for the bare minimum.

"We're good. That was it. I'm happy for him if he's happy."

Isaac snorts.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?" he asks the back of Lydia's head.

She just hums and switches the car stereo to a different playlist.

*

The house is full of werewolves. Like there must be about a hundred of them in here milling about holding glasses of champagne which won't get them even the slightest bit tipsy. It's like one of those depressing house parties Stiles went to back in college only with no music.

They're sort of fed to wolves, so to speak. Lydia's decided to be uncharacteristically magnanimous and allows Stiles to stick to her side so Pat's reduced to hovering and introducing them to her family instead of the alternative, which Stiles imagines involves less talking and more sexual bondage.

Derek's nowhere to be found. It shouldn't be surprising - Derek's the least socialized creature on the fucking planet so of course he'd be hiding somewhere or absent from the proceedings altogether. That's just fucking perfect.

Pat's parents are slightly intimidating and in a different universe where Stiles hasn't made Allison's parents' acquaintance, he'd be cowering in one of the attic rooms. Instead, he's smiling and making polite smalltalk, trying his best to ignore the speculative glint in their eyes.

Their assorted cousins and extended family come up to them one by one to be introduced and they're either just as interested as Pat and Paul are or they're visibly holding back their hostility.

Stiles just knows that Lydia's going to be bored sooner rather than later and is going to leave him to the Fordhams' clutches so he starts shiftily looking around for someone to save him.

Scott and Allison are by the music room, chatting with another pregnant couple and cooing at their infant. Stiles tries to force Scott to look his way via the power of their transcendent BFF bond only Scott is a horrible best friend and doesn't so much as glance his way. Allison's no better, captivated with helping the baby with its bottle.

Jackson's holding court by the stairs, alternately baring his teeth and flirting with the wolves in his immediate vicinity. He's one up on Scott though in the good pack member department because he does look up and catches Stiles's desperate look, only he's a douche and chooses to ignore it.

Isaac had wandered off in the direction of the kitchen when they'd come in and Boyd and Erica are no where to be seen and Stiles is so, so doomed. He's either going to be eaten or smothered to death.

Something slams into his knees and he manages to catch himself before he faceplants.

"Hi," says the little boy hugging his knees. "I'm Sasha. I'm four."

"Sasha!" Mrs Fordham scolds. "Apologize."

"It's okay - " Stiles starts but Sasha grins up at him and says, "Sorry! Come play!"

"Uh, okay," Stiles says, and Sasha grabs his hand and drags him out the room. Stiles waves apologetically at the Fordhams. They smile indulgently at him.

He passes Erica on his way up the stairs and she winks at him. "Got your back."

He stares at her in confusion. Sasha nuzzles up against her leg and scrambles up the stairs. Stiles grins in understanding. "You're my new favorite. Seriously. I am promoting you."

Erica rolls her eyes. "Sure." She knocks her boot against his heel. "Go before they spot you."

He smiles at her one more time then follows Sasha up the stairs where a whole bunch of little kids are rolling around the carpet, play-fighting.

"Hi!" says a little girl in an elaborate pirate costume. Stiles has to give mad props to whoever made it because she's got a stuffed parrot sewed on her shoulder and one of her pants leg is painted to resemble a peg leg. "You can be my first mate!"

"Nuh-uh!" Sasha yells, glomping onto Stiles's side. "We're playing dragons!"

"We always play dragons!" the girl yells, stomping her feet and waving her plastic hook around.

"I found him first!"

"I call dibs!"

Sasha growls, eyes glowing blue and growing little fangs. He makes a dive for the girl but Stiles catches him by the waist. The little girl's growling too and Stiles tries to head this off at the pass. "Okay, guys. Pirates and dragons are both equally awesome so why don't we make this even more awesome by playing both?"

The little girl's eyes go back to normal while she eyes him skeptically. "You can't play pirates and dragons at the same time, silly."

"Uh, yes you can," Stiles says, hoisting Sasha onto his hip. "You'll be the pirate captain looking for treasure and Sasha can be the dragon guarding the treasure."

At this point, the rest of the kids have stopped doing whatever they'd been doing to listen. "And half of you guys," Stiles says, pointing at them, "can be the pirate crew and the other half can be the dragons." He looks at Sasha, who's sucking on his thumb and looking up at Stiles. "That okay with you?"

Sasha nods, buried his face in Stiles's chest. "You can be the princess."

"Yeah!" the little girl cheers. "We hafta rescue you from the dragons!" She starts bossing the other kids into choosing sides, pushing the dragons into one of the guest rooms - their cave - and the other half she commandeers into the upstairs dining area, climbing on top of the table and declaring it her ship.

"We're comin' to save you!" she yells, waving at Stiles with her hook.

He knows he's supposed to be worried about them falling and hurting themselves or whatever but he'd done worse with Scott when he was just as small and he didn't have supernatural healing to fall back on. He turned out okay. Well, he came out the other end of adolescence alive. The worst that could happen is the kids break the furniture and as it's ugly-ass furniture that Stiles veto-ed in the first place...why not?

He lets his dragons herd him onto the bed and he stretches out - Sasha sitting on his stomach, growling protectively, while the other kids whoosh around the room, flapping their arms - and settles in for a nap.

*

Less than an hour later and all the kids are conked out on the bed with him, chasing rabbits in their sleep and drooling on each other. It's really cute. He slides out from under them and out of the room, walking further down the hall to use the bathroom.

He plans on going to nap some more after he's done only he hears the muffled sounds of a baby crying and freaks out for a bit, pushing open all the rooms on this floor looking for it.

Sixth time's the charm and he pushes open the door to see Derek cradling a little bundle and shushing it, swaying from side to side as he tries to get the baby to accept a bottle of milk.

Derek catches sight of him and Stiles can only wiggle his fingers hello.

"Shut the door," Derek says quietly.

Stiles complies and makes his way over to them. The baby's finally latched on and starts sucking greedily, big green eyes staring muzzily up at Derek's face.

"Hey, buddy," Stiles whispers, holding his finger against the baby's hand until the baby's gripping it firmly. "What's your name?"

"Lee," Derek answers. "His mom's one of Pat's cousins."

"This where you've been hiding all that time?" Stiles squints at him.

Derek glares.

"Yep, got my answer," Stiles says, smug and exasperated all at once. "You know, if Lydia didn't step up to be my human shield, who knows what could've happened to me."

"Seriously, they're not gonna hurt you."

"But what about in a sexual way?" Stiles asks, just to be a shit.

Derek growls.

Stiles wiggles his finger and Lee's grip tightens. "Can I hold him?"

Derek's quiet for a second then backs Stiles up into the window seat and stares him down.

"What?"

"You've never held a baby before."

"I'm not gonna _drop_ him," Stiles grumbles but is instantly appeased by Derek rearranging his arms and settling Lee into the crook of his elbow. "Oh, wow. He's so tiny. Derek, look how tiny he is! You're a tiny little baby, aren't you?" And file this under things he didn't know about himself: he's one of those people who go stupid when confronted with teeny, tiny humans.

He makes the mistake of glancing up. Derek's looking at him with the softest expression on his face and it just breaks Stiles's heart, knowing that he has the power to put it there.

"Get over here," he says instead of anything important. "In case I drop him."

Derek blinks and actually looks scared at the prospect for a second, which, thanks for the vote of confidence there, dude. He settles down on the floor, in the space between Stiles's legs and Stiles hooks a knee over his shoulder, just because.

It's really peaceful like that.

Stiles leans back against the window and looks out at the backyard. It's nice and bright outside - perfect summer weather. He sees movement out on the back porch and squints against the sunlight. He can just about make out Boyd leaning against the railing, hand coming up to cup Isaac's face. Isaac lets him and their heads draw close in a kiss.

Stiles hums to himself, pleased, and rubs his foot against Derek's belly.

"What're you so happy about?" Derek says, breath puffing hot through the fabric of Stiles's jeans.

"I'm fucking psychic, is what," Stiles says and plonks the empty baby bottle on top of Derek's head.

*


	6. Chapter 6

Their first time happens mostly because Stiles does not want to die a virgin.

It was pretty gutsy of him, all things considered. He'd never even been kissed up until that point. There had been that one aborted make out session with Erica which had ended up with them collapsed against each other, hysterically laughing, tears streaming down their cheeks. It didn't really do much for his ego.

Senior year was a whole different set of fucked up that involved deadly territorial disputes with another pack (they had a _witch_ in their employ, jesusfuck), trying to keep Scott alive in the face of the Argents' increased hostility and his own stupidity and teaching Derek to train the pack into something approaching a semblance of cohesiveness. For someone who's been a werewolf all his life, Derek just plain sucks at helping others be one. It sorta makes sense in that Stiles thinks if he had to teach someone to be human, he'd take a lot of things for granted but really, he thinks he'd catch on quicker than Derek did and have an itemized list on hand before a week was out.

It'd go something like, _How to be a Human, by Stiles Stilinski: 1) Don't forget to breathe. 2) Don't forget to eat. 3)Don't forget to sleep. 4) MOST IMPORTANTLY, DO NOT DIE._

A _How to Werewolf_ guide can't be much harder. Hey, Stiles the human taught _Scott_ to do it and Scott's had 'incapable of processing thought' written on his report card since kindergarten.

He digresses.

The point is that they'd just narrowly escaped being shot to death by the Argents and Derek's little warehouse hideout's been burned to the ground. They've got a showdown with the rival pack at dusk tomorrow and they're all frightened to death.

Stiles probably went crazy from all the Adderall and coffee he'd ingested in the last four days. He's running on no sleep and he's sick and tired of all this shit and fucking fed up with Derek's stupid intimidation tactics and something probably misfires in his brain because he corners Derek in the torture basement of the Hale house where they're all hiding out and just goes for it.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts, pushing him away. "What the hell?"

Stiles ignores him and lunges forward, manages to press his mouth against Derek's for two seconds before Derek grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him off.

"C'mon, man," Stiles whines. "I'm not dying with that as my first and only kiss."

Derek glares. "We're not dying!"

"Excuse me if I don't give you the benefit of the doubt," Stiles says, going limp. Derek lets go of him and Stiles stumbles, catches himself, and goes after Derek. "I'm just hedging all my bets here, buddy."

"No."

"This could be our last night on earth and I for one am going to spend it getting rid of this pesky thing called virginity. Don't pretend you don't want it too."

Derek backs himself into a corner, hesitates. Stiles takes the opportunity and gets danger-close. "You've always scared the shit out of me, you know? Always threatening to kill me or eat me... I figured, hey, if you haven't done it by now, it's probably got to be something else."

"Well, you're wrong."

"Yeah, no. I don't think so," Stiles says, pressing up until they're chest to chest.

"Stiles," Derek warns, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. 

Which, _good_ , Stiles thinks meanly, at least it isn't him feeling that way for a change.

"Derek," Stiles mocks, grinning.

Derek flinches; he's staring fixedly at the far corner. Stiles follows his gaze. _Oh, shit._ Kate Argent's shackles are hanging down from the archway and stupid, stupid, Stiles totally forgot about the whole sexual assault and battery that went on down here.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, stumbling back, trying to put as much space between them as possible.

"Stiles..." Derek reaches out for him but Stiles shies away.

"Oh, god," he says, wrapping his arms around himself. "I'm so sorry. I'm not thinking right." He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Stop," Derek says, quiet but firm.

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. "I'm gonna go." He walks backwards, waving his arms at the stairs.

"You're too young," Derek blurts out.

Stiles stops. Stares.

Derek stuffs his hands in his pockets. "You're too young."

Stiles snorts. "That's it? That's how you're going to make me feel less creepy about this?"

Derek shrugs. "It's the truth."

"Yeah, sure, obviously your only objection to sleeping with me isn't the rape-y vibes I just put out but because you think I'm not old enough to handle it? Newsflash, buddy. I'm apparently old enough to be chased around town by a para-military cult carrying guns and medieval torture weapons. I'm old enough to have legitimate panic attacks about werewolves carving open my chest with their teeth. But I'm not old enough to have sex?"

"Don't make jokes. Not about this, okay?" Derek growls. "You want to lose it so badly? Go ask Erica or Isaac or any other kid your age."

"Derek," Stiles says softly, finally comprehending. "You're not going to mess me up."

"You don't know that."

"You won't," Stiles says insistent. He walks up to Derek. "I trust you, okay? So have a little faith in me. It doesn't have to be anything more than - I don't know - reaffirming being alive in the face of inevitable death and dismemberment. It's not taking advantage of me."

Derek lets out a breath.

"So," Stiles says, tilts his head to the side, "you gonna listen to me this one time? Trust me just this once?"

Stiles shuts his eyes, holds his breath.

"Okay," Derek says. "Okay."

He presses his lips against Stiles's. It's chaste and as light as a butterfly's wings brushing against his mouth. Stiles goes with it, breathes Derek in. He presses close, lets Derek take the lead, and when Derek takes his bottom lip between his teeth, he resists the urge to fistpump in victory.

It's nice; it's almost like nuzzling, that is until Derek gently pries his mouth open and - _oh,_ that _is_ nice. That's really, really nice. They should keep doing that.

Derek breaks off and Stiles would be frowning if Derek weren't stroking his neck. "What's with the stopping? Why're we stopping? We should get right back to the kissing. Especially with the tongues. That was really good."

Derek laughs. "You really never stop talking, huh?"

"Nope," Stiles quips and cups Derek's jaw between his palms. "And you should do that more often."

"What?"

"Smiling. Smiling's a good look on you."

Derek grins, cranes his neck and presses open-mouthed kisses against Stiles's lips. It's a pleasant blur of Derek sucking kisses along his neck while they scrabble to get their shirts off. And then Derek's got him by the thighs and is lifting him and, wow, where'd that mattress come from and they're making out in a horizontal position which Stiles approves as a step in the right direction, especially given all the rubbing. Rubbing's great. More than great.

"Um," Derek says uncertainly when Stiles reaches for the button on his jeans.

"That's not a good sound," Stiles says as he fumbles with the rest of the buttons. Of course the universe wouldn't make it easy on him and make Derek partial to zip-fly jeans. Of course not.

"Just - are you _sure_?"

"Are we really gonna go over this again?" Stiles says, finally triumphing over those damned buttons. "Because yes, I'm sure. I am totally, 100% on board with this. I am giving you my informed consent." Stiles pushes Derek's jeans down his hips. "Seriously." And wow, no underwear. Stiles uses his knees to push the jeans all the way past Derek's hips and gets his first ever close-up of someone else's equipment.

It's kinda impressive.

Stiles reaches out, tentative, then just goes for it and closes his fist around Derek's cock.

Derek makes a sound like the wind's been knocked out of him. Stiles takes that as approval and starts moving his wrist the way he does when he's alone in his room and jerking off to porn. It's weird and familiar at the same time and he's captivated by how much pre-come Derek's leaking. It's all over his fingers and he can't resist ducking his head in for a taste.

Derek's a blur of motion, pushing him back against the mattress and kissing him, deep and filthy. He kisses his way down Stiles's chest, hands making quick work of Stiles's jeans, and then he's mouthing at Stiles's cock through his briefs.

"Holy fuck!" Stiles reaches down and grabs Derek's hair.

Derek noses his way under the band of Stiles's briefs, fingers hooking under the fabric and tugging them off too. He leans back and just looks at Stiles. Stiles blushes, feels the flush spread down his chest.

Derek grins, sharp, and in one swift move buries his face is Stiles's crotch, deep-throating his cock.

"Oh my god!" Stiles chokes, fingers scratching at Derek's shoulder. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

It's amazing, it's mindblowing, and after less than no time at all, he's pounding on Derek's shoulders, babbling, "I'm going to come, I'm going to come, Derek - "

He blisses out for a second and then Derek's nosing against his cheek, licking at his mouth. He lets him, accepts the kiss and tastes himself on Derek's tongue. It feels really dirty. And hot. And okay, he's getting hard again.

"I really want you to fuck me," Stiles gasps out between kisses. "Like right now would be great."

Derek palms his cock, snorts, "Teenagers," and gets up.

Stiles frowns. "Where are you - " Derek's back in another second and then he's kissing Stiles again and all coherent thought just goes out the metaphorical window.

"Lube," Derek grunts, when they separate and Stiles squints at the bottle.

"Is that _gun oil_?"

"You got a better alternative?"

Stiles sighs, longsuffering. "Whatever." He spreads his legs, bends his knees.

Derek chokes. "You've done this before?"

Stiles rolly his eyes, favors Derek with a sassy grin. "Dude, it's called the internet."

Derek gets his fingers all slick and Stiles's nerves choose that very moment to remind him that they exist.

Derek just runs the pads of his fingers over Stiles's hole and Stiles can't help but startle at that.

"Okay?" Derek frowns and Stiles nods, swallowing down the nervous flutter in his throat.

He can do this, hell, he's been looking forward to this and it's _Derek_. He really shouldn't be reacting like this.

Derek must read it on his face, though, because he lays down on his side and kisses Stiles. It goes on for so long that Stiles almost forgets that Derek's fingers are still _there_. He buries his fingers in the hair on Derek's nape and hums into the kiss, feeling himself relax, enough that when Derek finally manages to slide a finger inside him it's almost like nothing at all - it's just like he's alone in his bedroom and experimenting by himself.

Two fingers are a bit of a stretch but the third makes him gasp, his eyes flying open. It hurts - it hurts so _good_. Derek mouths at his lower lip, soothing him through it.

"Okay," Stiles says, scrubbing his fingers through Derek's hair. "Okay. I'm ready."

Derek pulls back just a bit, stares into his eyes, then finally nods. "I don't have any rubbers on me but I can't catch anything. I can't give you anything either."

"Unless you count lycanthropy," Stiles can't help adding.

Derek glares. "I'm serious. If it doesn't sit right with you then I'll get you off with my fingers."

"Derek," Stiles whines, wiggles, and _Holy mother of shit, what is **that.**_ Stiles squirms some more, thrusting back against Derek's fingers, trying to make it happen again. That's gotta be his prostate - magic happy button worshipped by the gay how-to sites he's visited - which he's never managed to find on his own.

Derek catches him by the hip, holds him still and presses his fingers up. Sparks explode behind Stiles's eyelids and Derek is officially the best person he's ever known. Period.

"Nngh," Stiles says.

"We can do this; this is fine," Derek says.

"Wha - ?" Stiles mutters then remembers what they were talking about in the first place. "No, no. Werewolf immunity, I get it." Stiles manages to give him a thumbs up.

Derek shakes his head. "You are such a dork."

"If you'd hurry up, I'll be a non-virgin dork," which is the lamest comeback ever but Stiles really does not care right now because Derek's sliding his fingers out and that's the head of Derek's cock pressed up against him. Stiles moans, tries to help by spreading his legs even wider. Derek grunts, presses one of Stiles's knees flush against the mattress while the other guides his cock in and, fuck, that hurts. It _hurts_.

Stiles bites the inside of his wrist. Oh god, it's unrelenting, it's like being stabbed and he kind of wants to cry but he's so aware of potentially frightening Derek off. He takes in big gulping breaths, trying to brace himself, and then Derek's all the way in. Stiles feels like he's choking on it.

"Shh," Derek soothes, stroking the inside of his thigh.

Stiles digs his nails into Derek's back, heart racing like he's just run a marathon.

"Sorry," Derek whispers and Stiles has had enough of them apologizing to each other. He grabs Derek by the neck and brings their lips together in a bruising kiss.

Derek gentles him through it until he's not jumping out of his skin with every breath. "I'm good," Stiles breathes, nodding up at him.

Derek starts moving, slow and shallow at first - Stiles has to bite his cheek against the strangeness of it - and then deeper. Stiles _loves_ deeper. It's embarrassing because he doesn't stop moaning through it.

Derek speeds up and it's so, so great. Derek's the best, making sure to grind against Stiles's prostate on every up thrust. It's not long before Stiles is coming a second time. He bites Derek's shoulder through it. It's so good it's painful.

He's blissed out, legs limp over Derek's back, smiling stupidly up at Derek. Derek's rhythm falters and then he pulls out, sudden - it's jarring and punches a gasp out of Stiles. He comes all over the insides of Stiles's thighs, manages to get some on Stiles's groin and belly.

Stiles would make a face but he's too busy feeling himself clenching around nothing and it's frustrating. He feels so empty and uncomfortable. He squirms.

Derek licks a stripe up his left thigh, noses at his hole. Stiles gasps, tries to pull away, but Derek holds him still, laves him with his tongue where he's hot and swollen.

Derek replaces his tongue with fingers. Stiles feels his body welcome them and he finally relaxes. Derek kisses his way up Stiles's sternum, reaches his mouth, and they just make out lazily, Stiles clamping Derek's arm between his legs.

'I love you,' he thinks and writes it off as a side effect of the endorphins.

Derek nuzzles his cheek and they doze off like that, pressed against each other on a filthy mattress in a place that holds too many bad memories, tomorrow just on the horizon, threatening terrible pain and death.

*

Stiles drives up to the Hale house just past dawn on the day of the handfasting ceremony. He's exhausted from a restless night spent tossing and turning and twisting himself up in his blanket.

The house is surprisingly quiet - it'd been a hive of activity the last few days, with the Fordhams taking up every available room and running roughshod all over the place. As far as Stiles can tell, handfasting doesn't need as much prep as a wedding would. The only thing different about the house is that the solar's been cleared out and a chalk circle's been drawn on the floor.

Romantic.

Stiles makes his way to the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs and staring at his hands for the time it takes for the coffee to brew.

He's going to do this.

He pours the coffee into two mugs and walks outside, past what they generously call their backyard, and into the surrounding woods.

It doesn't take long for him to find Derek.

"Hey," he says, walking around the stump Derek's sitting on and handing him one of the mugs.

"Thanks," Derek says, taking it.

"De nada," Stiles mumbles, sitting on the log next to him.

They sit in companionable silence, sipping their coffees and watching the sun crawl past the horizon.

"It kinda threw me off when I got in. The house was way too fucking quiet," Stiles says.

Derek chuckles. "They all sleep like the dead." He twists the mug between his palms. "It's kinda nice, having the house filled with people again."

Stiles bites his lip. "Yeah."

They fall silent again.

Stiles takes a deep breath and just decides to go for it. "I can't ever give you that."

Derek's head whips around, frowns at him. "What?"

Stiles closes his eyes. "I can't give you a pack. I can't ever stay here for you." He opens his eyes, meets Derek's gaze. "I can't give you any of the things you want."

"Stiles - " Derek reaches out for his hand. Stiles is weak and lets him.

"You and me, we were supposed to be easy, you know? Fun." He swallows. "And we were, we are. You're surprisingly easy to talk to and I like hanging out with you." He looks down at their joined hands. "You're not supposed to twist me up inside."

Derek squeezes his hand tight but doesn't say anything.

"I can't be in love with you because I won't give you the things you need. I can't."

"Are you saying you're in love with me?"

"I'm saying I can't be. I can't be in love with you if it means making you miserable."

"Stiles..."

Stiles shrugs. "That's it. That's my big confession." He laughs. "And I promised my dad I wouldn't be the Julia Roberts your Dermot Mulroney but I guess that's pretty fucking moot at this point, huh?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Derek says, eyes wide.

Stiles snorts. "'Course you wouldn't." He sighs. "So, yeah. I'm totally gonna go off-script here and not stick around for the handfasting." He makes to stand up but Derek's suddenly in his face, kneeling between his legs.

"I usually have no fucking idea what you're talking about most of the time but if you think for one second that you don't make me happy..." Derek takes both of his hands in his. "Well, for once, you're the one who's wrong."

"I make you laugh," Stiles says, sardonic. "You think I'm funny. That's not the same thing."

"Not just that," Derek says, irritated. "It's everything else too, okay?"

"But it's not enough," Stiles finishes for him.

"You're wrong."

Stiles sighs.

"No, listen. You're my mate. You're _pack_."

Stiles sets his mouth. "I can't ever give you cubs, Derek. Think about that."

"You think _that's_ what pack is? After all this time?" Derek says, frustration in every syllable. "That's not important! That's not what pack is!"

"And this thing with the Fordhams? You think I don't know what this is about? This is about rebuilding the Hale pack. Reclaiming your birthright. You're putting yourself through all this so don't tell me it's not important," Stiles bites out.

"It was," Derek says, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against Stiles's. "When it was all I thought I had."

Stiles sucks in a shaky breath. "You're being rash."

Derek opens his eyes. "I'm not. I know I'll never be able to bring them back, okay? But it was all I had. This?" He sweeps his arm wide. "This was always the alternative."

"I still can't stay here."

"Then I'll go wherever you go."

This is your territory. This is your home."

" _You're_ my home," Derek says, insistent.

Stiles blinks, tries to restrain himself but ends up cackling. "Oh my god, you fucking dork. That was the cheesiest thing - oh god, I can't stop laughing."

Derek tries to keep stoic but eventually breaks. "Shut up," he says in between bouts of laughter.

"I'm never gonna let you live that down," Stiles says, wiping tears from his eyes. " _Never._ "

Derek snorts. "I've done worse."

"I _know_."

"So?"

Stiles blinks at him. "So what?"

Derek scowls.

"I'm kidding," Stiles says, pressing a thumb against his frown lines. "If you're sure."

"Positive."

"Okay, then," Stiles says, fingers sliding down to cup Derek's jaw. "I guess I'll have to call the Espinozas, tell them another wolf's coming to creep on their land."

Derek grins, "You do that," and kisses him.

 

end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. Thanks to everyone who came along for the ride. Not my best work nor my most thought out one but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


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